


Of A Saint

by RubraSaetaFictor



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Compliant, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-His Last Vow, Sherlock Lives, Sherlock Makes Deductions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-10 12:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4391453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubraSaetaFictor/pseuds/RubraSaetaFictor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after the events of His Last Vow, John Watson finds himself once again in mourning: for the wife he lost too soon, the daughter he never knew, and the life he thought he'd have. He’d have to find a new normal. Take the blanket of his sorrow and fold it into a pocket square to remain tucked hidden over his heart, just a corner peaking up to public view every now and again.</p><p>*****</p><p>Sherlock had adjusted when John moved out. There was never any thought to another flatmate. To find one person willing to live with him had been a miracle, and Sherlock Holmes did not hold much stock in miracles. <br/>And yet, here was Doctor John Watson sitting in his old chair, with a duffle next to it filled with seven, no six days’ worth of clothes, and adrift as the day Sherlock met him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. November 4

John Watson was considering growing a moustache.

The shaving foam was there on his upper lip, but his hand hesitated to stoke the razor across it as he’d done on so many days in his post-pubescent life.

He’d had a moustache before and everyone hated it. Said it aged him. But that was five years ago and as John looked at himself in the mirror, the face that looked back at him seemed aged far beyond that.

Yes, his hair was more silver than brown these days; yes, his body has lost some of its military trim to the softness of the middle age; and yes, that leg that once limped for no reason now stiffened in truth at the knee, weakened by too much running, running after Sherlock mostly.

These were all the typical ravages of time, he was nearly 50 after all, or close enough to it, but it was more than that.

The last time he’d grown a moustache was after Sherlock died – faked his death. He sometimes still had to remind himself that Sherlock had not actually died and been miraculously resurrected. That it had been a plan, a ploy, designed to serve a greater purpose, his personal suffering be damned.

He hadn’t grown that moustache in his grief, the way dejected men grow breads or how some cultures shave their heads in mourning. It was years after Sherlock’s death, seeming death, that he tried it out on a lark.  When things were finally coming back together. In those first months with Mary.

She’d hated the moustache too. Though he only knew that when Sherlock returned, deducing his girlfriend off the bat, much as the man had done upon their first meeting, and presumably every first meeting Sherlock had had in his adult life.

It wasn’t a grief moustache. It was a moving on moustache, new look, new life sort of moustache. So why did he want one now?

Said it aged him.

Well he was aged now. He’d thought that Afghanistan would be the worst thing he’d have to overcome in his life. What could be worse than war? Then he lost Sherlock. Resurrected or no, ploy or no, those two years of grief were very much real to John. The everyday reminders of experiences unshared so much more unbearable than the adrenaline-fuelled nightmares of the front. So much quieter and crueler.  And then Sherlock came back, and the grief was tamped down, though not entirely forgotten.  Then sorrow replaced with joy- a friend returned, a marriage, a baby on the way.

Alice.

Alice, stillborn two weeks too soon. The nursery all prepared, the excitement on the way to the hospital, then devastation upon arrival. Mary still having to suffer through the pain of childbirth, with no miracle waiting at the end. Her physical soreness in the following weeks, minimal compared to the emotional pain.

Funny how no one seemed to think of him as having been a parent - she never breathed, so it never happened. That life should just resume as normal. As if those months of hoping and dreaming and planning had never occurred.

Life did carry on, as needs it must. Thrown himself into work at the surgery, worked a few cases with Sherlock, though nothing involving death, or missing children- thefts and adultery, mostly. Not even invited to come to the other ones, learning about the case in the paper or from Mrs. Hudson afterward. Supposed Sherlock thought he’d be too raw, too emotional to be objective. Or perhaps he was being kind. Maybe both? Who knew?

He’d found a new normal. Taken the blanket of his sorrow and folded it into a pocket square to remain tucked hidden over his heart, just a corner peaking up to public view every now and again, but mostly a private sorrow that he and Mary shared.

Had shared.

It seemed patently unfair that he should now bear all this newest sorrow on his own. That his Mary, his rock, was not there to help him navigate his latest return to shifting sands after five years of bedrock under his feet. Mary, who had spent too much of her waning energy trying to help him with what she knew was coming, had left him, once again, alone.

John Watson felt old, so very old.

He put the razor down and turned on the tap.

He may as well look the part.

*****

It’d been a long a day at the surgery and it got dark so early in November. Lighting-up time came at 5, or would if he drove a car. _Civil Twilight¸_ Sherlock would call it. More elegant and precise. Civil dusk arriving at precisely the moment when the sun reached 6° below the horizon. Perhaps the only astronomical phenomenon Sherlock cared about, the moment when it was dark enough to commit crimes incognito.

But for John civil twilight meant one thing, a long walk from the Tube in the dark to a dark and empty flat.

His keys jangled in the lock for only a moment before the lock uncaught and the door swung open. A practiced motion, done hundreds of time.

_Home._

That word hardly seemed appropriate for the space anymore. Mary had done so much to make the little flat cosy, papering the walls, putting books on the shelves, a photo here, painting from a boot sale there. Throw pillows and the crocheted afghan on the sofa. Traces of Mary everywhere, but Mary herself nowhere.

Perhaps it was his days in the army, every bunk the same, ready to move on short notice, but he never seemed to make much of a dent in any space himself. A laptop on a table and a few jumpers in the closet, his SIG Sauer in a drawer. If not for the two bottles of shampoo in the shower, one could hardly be blamed for thinking the flat had an occupancy of one.  

In spite of, or perhaps because of, his lack of presence in a residence, John couldn’t help but associate people with theirs spaces.  After the roof at St. Bart’s, John moved out of Baker Street in less than two weeks. He’d paid half the rent (or all of it on slow case months) for a year and half, but it had always seemed to be Sherlock’s place, and with Sherlock gone he felt like squatter. The fact that every bullet hole in the wall and skull on the mantle reminded him of what he’d lost, made the move all that much easier.

Mary had been gone 10 days.

Nine days ago the palliative care representative had come to remove a few pieces of equipment, the IV pole and unused drip bags.  The hospice workers had been kind, so kind, but John had insisted on doing most of the medical caretaking himself. To do something, anything, in a situation so helpless.

 _Cancer of Unknown Primary_. He was a doctor, Mary a nurse, and Sherlock was Sherlock, but they’d all missed it until it had gone too far. From a stomach ache to a cancer diagnosis in a week. The oncologists thought it was likely ovarian, but the thought of Mary’s reproductive system failing her again seemed much too cruel.

John knew that no amount of furniture rearrangement would make the flat remind him less of Mary. A dozen cans of paints couldn’t wipe away that this was place they lived in, made love in, that Mary had died in. He’d be ashamed to admit it, but the part of his bereavement leave that wasn’t spent in funeral preparations and paperwork was spent looking at adverts for flats.

John stood in the doorway, one light on and keys still in hand and knew that a tenth night was impossible.

He pulled the phone from his pocket.

_Need to get out. Case?_

The response came back seconds after he hit send. Too quickly. Mustn’t be on a case then.

_Baker Street is always open to you. SH_

One night, John thought, I just need to get out one night. But his hands found themselves grabbing his duffle from the top of the closet and throwing his laptop on top of a week’s worth of jeans, shirts, and jumpers. One night and then I’ll be back.

_Bring Chinese. SH_

John pulled his gun from his bedside cabinet and placed it in the waistband of his trousers, because you never knew with Sherlock, grabbed his bag and headed out the door.


	2. November 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Cribbage and Concertos

There had been no case that night. Just the Chinese and a disastrous attempt at cribbage. Sherlock kept insisting that John was making up the rules, but it was hardly his fault that the game was deliberately complex and that he had forgotten the matching Jack bit.  Things had gone especially downhill when the concept of Muggins was introduced, but that occurred anytime anyone pointed out that Sherlock was wrong. John had got defensive and Sherlock had sulked, there had been sighs of exasperation (John) and grand sweeping arm gestures (Sherlock), and in the end no one remembered who had won (if there had been a winner at all). Finally they settled into silence in their respective chairs, computers in laps.

John couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief at the normalcy of it all.

For months people had treated him like a wounded dog, first as “the one with the wife with cancer” and now as the “poor widower.” Everyone was so nice, too nice, everyone being so polite to his face and then looking at him as if he were an egg about to break. Thank god Sherlock didn’t have the same regard for civility as normal people, John just couldn’t bear it from him. To be treated like a china doll by Sherlock Holmes would mean he was good and honestly broken, and John was fine.

There was one thing that niggled at him. It was three days in, long enough to clearly not be a mistake, but far from being an actual moustache yet and Sherlock hadn’t said a thing. He ran an index finger across growing bristles on his top lip and looked up to catch Sherlock looking at him.

“Women often cut their hair short after a divorce.” Sherlock said before returning his attention to his laptop.

“What’s that?”

“In defiance of a now-ex husband who preferred that women wear their hair long, they cut it off. Sometimes before the divorce. Sure sign that the papers are soon coming.”

“Ah yes. Mary did not like the moustache. But no. No, just something different.”

Sherlock looked back at John for a long moment, scanning him in that way that made John certain Sherlock was reading his thoughts (or at least trying to).

“At the average male facial hair growth rate, it will take three to four months to grow a proper moustache. At which point you will realize it looks hideous. In the interim you will have a half-grown moustache and look even more ridiculous.”  

John looked back down at this own computer with a bit of a smile. Yes, John thought, things were pleasantly unpleasant and normal at Baker Street. “Yes, well. We’ll see. I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes.”

*****

It was rare that Sherlock held his tongue, but he hadn’t intended to say anything about the nascent caterpillar attempting to emerge on John’s upper lip. Sherlock knew that John thought him to be inconsiderate and occasionally cruel, but he hoped that John understood that he never _intended_ to be inconsiderate to him, not truly.

It had taken Sherlock five minutes to grow accustomed to John’s presence in his flat all those years ago, and in the five years John had been married, he hadn’t deduced how to fill the space John left behind. Granted, the man didn’t take up much physical space, he was short after all and had surprisingly few belongings, though the latter was probably a carryover of the austerity of his military existence. But the man filled up a room in another, less precise way that bothered Sherlock.

Following John’s marriage, Sherlock had grown intentionally untidier. He had piled books and experiments on every flat surface. He had used John’s bedroom to house a sheep for a week, until Mrs. Hudson firmly objected in a tone he was unaware could come from Mrs. Hudson. One night, after 10 days with no cases, he had even removed John’s chair and put it out with the bins at 1 AM, only to drag it back upstairs a few hours later.

It was true that Sherlock often hadn’t noticed when John had gone out to Tesco for eggs, or to work at the surgery, or to Dublin for week. He was in the midst of a case and those brief excursions didn’t matter because he always knew that whether it was 15 minutes or 15 days, John would be back home.

Sherlock had adjusted when John moved out. There was never any thought to another flatmate. To find one person willing to live with him had been a miracle, and Sherlock Holmes did not hold much stock in miracles, despite the fact that the Law of Large Numbers guaranteed a one-in-a-million miracle 295 times a day (per Scientific American). No, the probability of repeat for a single individual was much too low.

Sherlock had got his one miracle and had taken for granted that it would still be in place when he returned from the dead. Even after two years, Sherlock had expected to find John sitting in his chair at 221B Baker Street, reading the paper with a cup of tea. But in the two year interim, John had moved on, met Mary, and fell in love. While it took longer than was normal, Sherlock realized that things would never be the same between them again.

And yet, here was Doctor John Watson sitting in his old chair, with a duffle next to it filled with seven, no six days’ worth of clothes, and adrift as the day Sherlock met him. Sherlock felt that he should be glad, that things would be back to the way they were, but Sherlock was not as selfish as he once was, and he knew the road that John had travelled to get here, and he felt somewhat terrible.

So it was only reasonable that when John noticed he was being unusually nice and that John needed him to not be unusual (for him, usual for others), that he had to insult the moustache. The divorcée bit was over the line (likely), and more mean that it needed to be (possibly), and Sherlock hoped that John didn’t notice he was overcompensating for his earlier moment of kindness (highly probable).

If there was one thing John Watson intrinsically was (aside from unerringly loyal, brave and good), it was British and like any proper British male, he was most comfortable when life conformed to a certain pattern, in his and John’s case, the certainty of uncertainty. Surely then, it was Sherlock’s job, at this difficult time in John’s life, to provide a sense of constancy, of normalcy. To be the distraction John so clearly needed.

_Need a case. – SH_

Lestrade texted back quickly, he must have been bored too.

_All I’ve got is a pharmacy robbery in South Wandsworth._

_Boring. Give me something good. – SH_

_Not here for your entertainment._

_Not for me. Need a distraction for John. – SH_

Sherlock looked at John clicking away on his computer as he waited for Lestrade’s response. John’s normally expressive face seemed so blank.

_I’ll call around. See if I can gin up any murders. Murders okay this time? I can drop off files for a cold case tomorrow if you’re interested._

_Murders are fine. Send over whatever you’ve got. - SH_

Sherlock smiled. He had yet to find someone who knew John that would not go out of their way for the man. For as proclaimed as John’s own loyalty was (that foolish, enduring loyalty for all of the seemingly wrong people), he never seemed to realize the devotion that he engendered in others.

_You have my gratitude. – SH_

It was unlikely Lestrade would come up with anything tonight, thought Sherlock. The violin then.  He moved to the window and his music stand.  But what to play? Nothing too maudlin surely, but nothing overtly cheery either (overcompensating). Major Key then. _Andante_ , no _Allegro_. Violin Concerto in E major. Yes. A bit of Bach should do nicely.

The notes rang out through the apartment and combined with the clack of John’s keyboard. Sherlock admitted to himself then, that there was something nice to familiarity of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bach’s Violin Concerto in E major](https://youtu.be/CWaKfi9h0lA)


	3. November 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after

As was her habit, Mrs. Hudson made her way up the stairs at 221B at 8:00 AM on the dot with Sherlock’s morning tray of toast and tea to find John Watson, in jumper and jeans, sitting in his old chair.

“John Watson!”

“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson,” said John, raising his mug of tea.

“Good morning.”

“Still making Sherlock his tea, I see.”

“Well, I suppose I won’t have to now.” Mrs. Hudson paused for a moment before putting down her tray. “You’ve moved back in, then?”

“Ah, no. Just visiting. Just came over for a chat.”

“That’s just as well. Would have been a bit soon, don’t you think? People would talk.”

John paused for a moment, then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. “They seem to do little else, Mrs. Hudson.”

“It _is_ good to see you, John. It’s been so rare of late.”

“Well, I suspect I shall be around more nowadays.”

“Of course, dear. But do take your time.” And with that admonition, Mrs. Hudson trotted back down the stairs.

In all his looking at adverts for flats, John had not consciously considered moving back into Baker Street. It’s one thing to have a flatmate when you’re a bachelor, but that wasn’t something you could do when you were a widower, could you? And in any case, he doubted that Sherlock wanted him back in the flat, he’d never got another flatmate after all. He probably preferred to live alone and the cases made enough money now that he didn’t need to.

And, John remembered, he had a perfectly good flat of his own. His and Mary’s flat. And why would he want to leave that?

“Ah John, you made tea. Lovely.”

Sherlock had always moved silently, like a cat. He was so tall and thin that he should have been gangly and awkward, but instead the man was graceful and lithe. Like a dancer. Then again, he was the one who taught John to waltz, after all, when John had never felt more awkward and gangly in his life. But it had worked out well enough, he’d done a fair job on the waltz at the wedding.

“Have we got any marmalade?”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Marmalade, John. This toast needs some.”

“Well how should I know? I haven’t done your shopping in ages.”

“Ah, quite right.” Sherlock leaned out the door of the flat and yelled down the stairs. “Mrs. Hudson! This toast needs some marmalade.”

A voice came from downstairs, “Not your housekeeper, dear.”

John got up from his chair begrudgingly. “I’ll check the cupboards.” John looked through the rather bare pantry and found a jar of marmalade. “Here,” said John, handing Sherlock the jar, “It’s old, but unopened.”

“I’ll risk the botulism.” Sherlock found a knife and began spreading the preserves on his toast.

John continued to look in Sherlock’s cupboards. “You’ve really got nothing in here. When’s the last time you went to the shops?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“I hope you tell Mrs. Hudson you’re grateful for her. If it wasn’t for her you’d probably starve yourself to death, or overdose on MSG. Give me your card, I’ll pick you up some things later.”

Sherlock nodded toward the kitchen table where his wallet sat and John, sighing, walked over and picked it up, though it was nearer to Sherlock.

“So, do you have any plans for the day? Any clients, cases?”

Sherlock took the last bite of his piece of toast and started putting marmalade on a second one. “The website is quiet. Lestrade promised me some cold cases. They should be bringing by the boxes later today.”

“Good. Fine. So I’ll pop off to the shops, get some food for this place, and when I get back we’ll work on the cold cases.” John realized that it’d been months since he’d worked on a case with Sherlock, and perhaps he was being presumptuous. “All right?”

“All right.”

John grabbed his coat and headed out the door. Sherlock looked over at John’s chair, with its half-finished mug of tea and now-absent duffle bag (moved it upstairs) and realized that even though John had just left, the room felt much fuller.

He smiled and plopped into chair.

“Quite all right.”


	4. November 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of distractions

Greg Lestrade had been true to his word and had supplied Sherlock with not one, but three of his most intriguing cold cases.

On Saturday, Sherlock broke down a suspect’s alibi in the murder of an 81-year old man by determining that the time of death had been inaccurately calculated due the attempted arson of the crime scene, which had warmed the victim’s body, and then further proved the suspect’s guilt by identifying the victim’s dog’s DNA (also murdered) on the suspect’s jeans.

Then there was the Vicar’s daughter, who had disappeared shortly after her 23rd birthday, following her father’s appointment to leadership of the Reform network’s committee on the sanctity of marriage. Foul play from equal rights groups had been assumed, but never proven. It turned out that the missing daughter had absconded to Portugal to marry her secret, long-time, and very female fiancée, which resulted in a very awkward visit to the Vicarage.

Monday night found John and Sherlock dodging switchblade thrusts from the Peckham Boys following an investigation of a convenience shop murder that revealed the owner had been dealing drugs out of the shop for nearly a decade.

Despite the lack of sleep, a spring had returned to John Watson’s step and a brightness to his eyes, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Sherlock thought he had never seen John laugh as hard as he had after discovering the knife hole from the Peckham Boys in his jacket. But the happier John got, the more everyone seemed to ask him if John was all right: Molly, when they went to check the dog hair in the lab at St. Bart’s, Lestrade, when they returned the cold-case boxes, solutions gamely in hand.

“A bloke’s not supposed to be this chipper a few weeks after his wife’s died. You sure he’s okay?” Lestrade had pulled him aside to say.

Convention be damned. Sherlock knew better. John needed this. To feel the rush of adrenaline and the sensation of being alive that only nearly dying could give you. For months it had seemed that John was dying right alongside Mary, growing more drawn and grey with each passing day. But here was John, his John, back to his right self again.

It was all the more distressing then, when that greyness returned on Tuesday morning as John headed back to work at the surgery. He had said hardly anything that morning. Or the morning after. And didn’t have much to say when he came back to Baker Street in the evenings either. Then on Thursday night, they’d had a client and stayed up late in the night working the case, the vibrancy back in John’s eyes.

But come Friday morning John overslept and rushed off to work, stopping only to kiss Sherlock on the top of head and say “Running late dear, see you at the surgery,” as he rushed out the door leaving Sherlock to sit, unblinking and stunned for a full two minutes.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

No reply. Louder then. “Mrs. Hudson!”

Sherlock heard the click of Mrs. Hudson’s heels as she made her way up the stairs.

“What is it Sherlock dear?”

“John kissed me on the head as he left for work.”

Mrs. Hudson seemed a bit bemused. “That’s sweet dear, but hardly something to run up the stairs about.”

“Then he said, and I quote - Running late dear, see you at the surgery.”

“Oh, I see. That’s too bad then.”

“See what? What do you see?!”

“Well, he must have thought you were Mary.”

“Mary? Why would he think I was Mary? I look nothing like her.”

“Well you are living together and it’s only been days --“

“Weeks.”

“Weeks then, since Mary passed. You’ve somewhat taken on that role, I suppose. Though I suspect Mary was much better about the cooking. It sounds to me like John not quite accepted that she’s passed. Not that I’d blame him, after what you did.”

“What _I_ did?”

“Yes of course, dear. What with the dying and being gone for two years and then popping back up as if nothing happened. Then that Irish boy – “

“Moriarty.”

“He went and did the same thing after three. It seems as if hardly anyone stays dead these days. I shouldn’t doubt that John will spend the next five years expecting Mary to suddenly pop up buying crisps at Tesco.”

“One hardly fakes a death from _cancer._ ”

“I didn’t say it was logical dear, grief never is.”

“Is this what he was like when he thought I was dead?”

“Oh I hardly know, never saw him after the funeral. He moved out and I never saw again until he came round to tell me he was proposing to Mary. I didn’t think it would work out for him with a woman, and so soon after you, but they were good together, she grounded him. Didn’t keep him from his friends either, which was nice. Such a shame about the baby though. “

“Yes, Alice. Did he ever talk to you about her, recently?”

“The baby?”

“No, Mary.”

“Not that I can think of. Has he said anything to you?”

“Just once, last week, said she didn’t like it when he grew a moustache.”

“Well, he should get rid of it. Ages him terribly. And he’s such a handsome fellow without it.”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock said distractedly, he was already thinking. “ _Should_ he be talking about her?”

“It is what people usually do after someone passes, it helps to share, to remember. But then again you two have never quite been usual, what with your running around and your murderers. Perhaps he just looks at a death a different way. But it might help. I shouldn’t think you’d want him to keep thinking you’re Mary, now would you?”

“No,” Sherlock took his time with the word and steepled his fingers before his mouth. Clearly this is a subject that would require some thought.

‘Well. I’ve some baking to do and it looks like you’ll be busy. Let me know if I can help.”

Sherlock’s eyes remained focused on the middle distance, “John did forget to make tea this morning.”

“Do it yourself then. Not your housekeeper, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson as she patted Sherlock on the shoulder and clicked her way back out of the flat.

 

********

John sincerely wished for some sort of epidemic to hit London. Some kind of plague would be particularly interesting, but anything to make his days at the surgery go more swiftly.

It took John a moment to realize how Sherlock-y that thought sounded, but after all these years, something was bound to rub off. Better a fear of boredom than a complete lack of social skills.

Being at the surgery just didn’t feel right without Mary poking her head round the door to tell him about his next patient. John tried to not think about the gap she left behind even here, not as noticeable as back at the flat, but still strong. Whenever he let himself notice too much, he could feel his chest start to tighten and the air in the room get so heavy.

The flat, he should go back to the flat. He’d been at Sherlock’s for days now and he was running out of clean clothes, not to mention that he’d invited himself for an evening and hadn’t left in days. What was the line about fish and houseguests? Better not overstay his welcome.

But the flat was so empty, so lacking in Mary…

He tried to think on the bothersome little things, the idiosyncrasies about Mary – the way she’d leave the caps on the condiments undone; leaving crochet hooks and darning needles in the sofa cushions; how she’d borrow his gun without asking; the snoring. But then he’d start to think about how he’d take them all in triplicate just to have her back and the air would get unbreathable and he knew that the new girl, Susan was her name?, was going poke her head around the door with another patient any minute, and he just couldn’t. Better not to think about it at all.

He’d think on croup, and research rashes, and explain how difficult it is to get scurvy these days, and try very hard to focus on a job that rarely required his full attention. It made him itchy.

He wanted to be back out on the streets of London. Chasing down alleyways, following the map in Sherlock’s head. Working cases full-time like they’d done all those years ago. Running after Sherlock, keeping him alive, out of trouble. _That_ was a job that required his full attention. No time to think then. No time to notice the emptiness creeping up around. 

But he needed to work, needed the money, and Sherlock hadn’t even offered, not that he’d asked. That time had come and gone, right?

He heard a light tap on the door, and he thought, for a brief moment, it might be Mary.

Susan leaned in the doorway, “Mrs. Parker, sinus infection.”

Of course it wasn't Mary. He needed a distraction.

He pulled out his mobile and typed a quick text.

_Thinking of picking up some curry tonight. Should I bring some over?_

 “Send her in.”

 He put his phone back in his pocket before he saw the reply.

_Chicken Korma. From Mumtaz. That butter-free place is ridiculous. - SH_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> File under The Truth is Stranger than Fiction - the Dog DNA Cold Case is based on a real case from British Columbia, which you can read about [ here ](https://books.google.com/books?id=W8x9UHzAHSUC&lpg=PP1&pg=PA82#v=onepage&q&f=false)


	5. November 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nothing changes and everything changes.

A week had passed and then another and nothing had changed. John was lively on days with a case and dull on ones without. He had referred to Sherlock as Mary on six additional occasions, all on dull days, all without noticing.  It vexed him like an unsolved case. Furthermore, John had not returned to his flat once and had only packed five days’ worth of clothes in his duffle, not six, and Sherlock was getting tired of seeing the same jumpers and shirts over and over again.

Clearly, something would have be done, but what?

Sherlock was at a lost as to the Mary issue, he certainly wasn’t going to ask John to _talk_ about it, but jumpers were something he could fix. The best solution would be to just buy John some new, less awful, ones. He knew John’s measurements well enough to pick an appropriate size, but he knew that even if he were to come home with an armful of London’s most flattering jumpers, John would reject them - “Nothing wrong with the one’s I’ve got.”

No, Sherlock would have to go John’s flat and get his things for him. He dug through his plastic bin of keys to find the right one, grabbed a box and a large suitcase, and hailed a cab.

 *****

Sherlock had been to the Watson’s flat a dozen or so times over the years. They’d invite him for dinner and though he usually wasn’t hungry, Mary did make excellent bread. Even better, she never expected him to be polite or make small talk. Mary never asked Sherlock to be anything other than himself, even more so than John, who accepted Sherlock at his worst in private, but asked for a modicum of normalcy in their interactions with others. The lying and shooting him aside, Sherlock liked Mary, and she liked him.

John had chosen well, and Mary was good for him, in a way Sherlock hadn’t been. True, John had been hurt when he found out that she’d lied about her past, but even in those cold moments, she had never left him, never not trusted him to the fullest.

Not like he had. It had taken Sherlock a long time to realize that what had made John so angry that night he returned was not that he had faked his death, not that he’d taken two years to come back (though that had hurt him so much), but that he had not _trusted_ John with his secret, when he had placed his confidence in so many others. Hurtful _and_ untrusting. A double blow.

That John had forgiven him at all was the second miracle of Sherlock’s life, but that was just the way John was. Once he’d decided you were worth the trouble, he was loyal to the end, despite all evidence to the contrary. Same with him, same with Mary.

Sherlock took a look around the Watson flat. It wasn’t anything like Baker Street, but it felt comfortable and lived in, even if no one had actually been here in weeks. It was just as if the occupants had been away on holiday.

Sitting Room. There was the sofa, deeply indented on one side, barely used on the other, from where John sat with his left arm wrapped around Mary, her body leaning into his, on quiet nights watching bad shows on the telly. Mary would sometimes crochet, too full of energy to merely sit and watch.

Kitchen. Cards and snapshots taped to the fridge, reminders of appointments, and magnets with numbers for takeaway (used infrequently). John ate much better when he was with Mary, gained half a stone, though he’d lost as much in the last few months (Note to self, identify the effects of emotions on eating, possible indicator of remorse versus sorrow). Cabinets typically well-stocked. Nary a body part in the fridge (dull).

Bathroom. Sherlock poked through the medicine cabinet. Mostly Mary’s things – perfume, makeup. A few items of John’s – shampoo, toothbrush, shaving cream, and men’s moisturizer, all cheap. Sherlock had to smile at that last one, the vanity of a middle-aged man. Nothing here that John would need, or didn’t already have back at Baker Street.

Bedroom. Still smelled faintly of sickness and hospital. That overly clean antiseptic smell. John slept on the left, Mary on the right. Though the mattress was mostly deeply worn in the middle. Mary liked to read in bed. Mostly novels, whatever was popular, though only in paperback. On John’s side, two hardcovers, barely 10% read. Where had John slept through Mary’s illness, her last days? On the sofa? No – here on the edge, on his side, toward the centre. Trying to sleep in stillness so as to not disturb her? Or watching, just in case something happened, in case she slipped away?

What must that be like? Sherlock has seen so many dead bodies and plenty of people die, even killed one himself. But for death to come so slowly? To watch it wither someone away?

Sherlock looked at John’s beside table and saw Mary’s rings, picked them up and watched the sunlight reflect off of them in his hand. He understood, perhaps, why John couldn’t sleep here anymore, and realized his packing must be more thorough.

An hour later he received a text from John.

_I’ve just got home. Where are you at?_

Home. He called it home. 

_At your flat. Come over. – SH_

_What are you doing at my flat?_

_Packing your things. You’re moving in. - SH_  

*****

Leave it to Sherlock to break into his flat and go through his things. The man had always had a shaky grasp of personal space and possessions, but this was a line too far. It was presumptuous enough that Sherlock assumed he was moving in, but it was another thing all together to go and rifle through his belongings, his and Mary’s things.

What had started as a slow burn of annoyance at the time John left Baker Street, had turned into a simmer of frustration in the cab ride across town, and became a full rolling boil of anger by the time he walked through the unlocked, but unbroken door of his own flat to find Sherlock casually lounging on his sofa, reading a medical journal.

“I don’t recall ever giving you a key to this flat.”

“An oversight on your part. I had one made years ago. I suppose I should have texted you, but I'm finished here. Everything is packed.”

“Everything is hardly packed Sherlock, in fact it looks like you’ve barely touched anything at all.”

“All your clothes are in the case and anything else important is in the box. Everything else is just window dressing.”

“Window dressing?” John face contorted as he took in a sharp breath. “Window dressing. I--- This is my life, my home you're talking about Sherlock. Why would you even presume that I would move back in with you? ”

“You haven't come back here in three weeks. This isn't your home anymore and you know it, not without Mary, it's not.”

“You had no right. No right at all.”

“What have I got wrong? You can't stand to be here, you've been avoiding it like plague. You bought new shampoo for Baker Street, rather than come back here and you’ve been wearing the same clothes for weeks straight. I think you’d rather go on paying the rent than actually come back here and deal with it, so I've saved you the trouble. Take the suitcase, I'll take the box, return your key and be done with it.”

“And I'm just to assume that in an entire flat , where I have lived for over five years, you've magically picked out everything I’d want to keep and it all fits in that little box.”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ll see about that.” John knelt down next to the small white banker’s box and pulled off the lid.

“No need to look at it now.”

“Shut it you. My life, my flat, my right.” John looked into the box, it wasn't even full.

He had intended to pull everything out hastily, to prove Sherlock wrong all the more quickly, but when he saw the small velvet box on top, he stopped. He opened it, Mary rings. He removed the box for a moment, holding them in his hand. They seemed impossibly light, as if he breathed too hard they would crumble to dust and blow away. He put them back in their box and set it gently on the floor. John pulled out the other items, touching them, inventorying them silently one by one. There were only seven items, it didn't take long.

When he lifted the flap on a plain white envelope, John took a deep breath and said his first words in over ten minutes. “Goddammit, Sherlock.” There was no more anger behind his words.

For the first time that evening, Sherlock looked concerned. “Did I miss something? Get something wrong?”

“No. You’ve got it all right. This is everything. All that's left, in one small goddamn box.”

John slowly placed the envelope back in the box. He looked at the items spread on the floor around him and pressed his hand to his mouth, then his forehead, his breath growing shallow and ragged.

“I'm sorry, John. I’ve overstepp—“

John raised his hand to quiet him. He could control this, pull it back together as long as no one talked. As long as no one looked at him. He would put these thing back in their box, shut the lid. Then it would be all right. Everything would go back to being fine. He could control this.

But John found that he couldn't touch anything.

He’d just not look at them then, but as he shut he eyes he could feel hot tears push out of the edges of his closed lids and he knew he was lost.

Five years of his life. The entirety of his marriage, family, fatherhood. All of it, in one small box.

In that moment, all of the plans John had made for his future on quiet nights in this little flat with Mary, in the secret corners of his own heart, were all washed away. There would be no laughter of children, no couple growing old together here. No Christmases or shared pots of tea, no forgetting the shopping, or snarking over bad telly with boxes of takeaway. No mornings sleeping in or searching for that last inconceivably tiny sock in the laundry. All the big moments you plan for and the hundreds of small ordinary ones that you don’t were gone, extinguished like the flame of a candle.

What was to be lifetime of memories fit into one small box.

He had never felt so alone. And for the first time, in the 29 days since Mary had died, John Watson allowed himself to cry. Once he started, John found that he could not stop, his shoulders shaking as his sorrow bubbled out.

He hardly noticed then, when a pair of long, thin arms wrapped themselves around him and pulled him in tight. John allowed himself to collapse into them. He stayed this way for what seemed like an eternity, until John’s breathing finally began to deepen. He was wrung out and empty, with no tears left to shed.

“Christ, this hurts.”

The arms tightened and it was only then that he realized the arms around him and that the arms belonged to Sherlock, that Sherlock Holmes was holding him, _hugging_ him.

John looked up, turning his reddened eyes to meet Sherlock’s. Those blue, grey, green eyes that could never seem to decide on a colour, that seemed to match the sky at any given moment, and yet be a shade entirely their own. They were gazing intently at him now, as if they were trying to gather the necessary information to comprehend this new, crying, broken creature.

There was something comforting in the intensity of that gaze, to know that Sherlock hadn’t figured all of him out just yet. That there were things about John that even Sherlock Holmes didn’t understand.  Sherlock Holmes, whose hands were on his shoulders, his gaze so intense, his face so close. It was a truly beautiful face, in a strange aquiline kind of way. That had been obvious from the first moment they met, but he had never really looked at Sherlock’s face this closely before.  All he would have to do was lean in, raise his chin up just a little, and their mouths would meet.

Why would he think that? And yet, he did. And without really knowing, why, John found himself leaning in, raising his chin.

John wasn’t sure what to expect when kissing Sherlock. Yes, there was a hint of stubble, but Sherlock’s mouth was much softer than he expected, his top lip thin, but the bottom one full and indulgent, and John melted into it, warm and open mouthed. Sherlock responded, opening his own lips, letting John’s tongue slip briefly between them.

John pulled back for a moment to see that same look of concentration on Sherlock’s face. Had he liked it, hated it? Why must Sherlock be so damn unreadable? But he had responded.  John put his hand on the side of Sherlock’s face and closed his eyes, moving in for a second kiss.

“John.”

John pulled back just slightly.

“I’m not Mary.”

“I know that.” John shifted back toward Sherlock, running his thumb across Sherlock’s cheekbone as if that somehow proved it.

“I’m not certain you do.” Sherlock replied, removing John’s hand from his face with what seemed to be a hint of sadness. They looked at one another for a long moment before Sherlock turned his eyes down toward the hand he still held in his own.

When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “What do you think this will accomplish? We’ll have a snog, maybe a shag, and I’ll hold your hand and ask you about your day and smooth your sorrows away?”

John wanted to say that he had no plans, that all they had all died with Mary and with Alice, and that all he had now was this moment, with Sherlock’s face so close to his own. That the one thing he wanted was to forget himself with another person’s body, on another’s person lips, and that perhaps, Sherlock’s lips were willing, had long been willing, and that John had always wanted them to be. Instead he said nothing, and Sherlock released John’s hand gently.

“I wish I could be what you want me to be. But I can’t be Mary. I hurt you when I died, left, and she came along and put you back together and now she’s broken you, and I wish I could return the favour. But I don’t know how.”

John looked at his left hand as it shook slightly. Unthinking, he clenched and released it, force of habit whenever a tremor came. He turned his chin back up to Sherlock, sitting back on his heels, leaning away, his mouth smiling, his eyes sad.

“All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, eh?”

A flash of thought blinked across Sherlock’s eyes. John has seen that flash a hundred times before. Sherlock was on a new thought now, and everything before would be (hopefully, mercifully) forgotten.

“What?”

“Don’t tell me you deleted Humpty Dumpty.”

“What’s a Humpty Dumpty?”

John took the opportunity to get up and cross room, putting as much space as possible between himself and his embarrassment.

“The egg-man. _Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.”_

“Is there more?”

“Why should there be?”

“It never says he’s an egg.”

“Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to poke holes in the logic of a nursery rhyme.” He paused, looking around the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry. I’m sure I’ve got some dried pasta in here.”

John turned his back and began loudly opening and shutting cabinet doors.

Sherlock wasn’t sure what had just happened. If felt as if a door of some kind had been opened between them, but was slammed shut just as abruptly as John closed cabinets now.

Sherlock had never been more aware of his body before, and it was an awkward, unwanted presence. He suddenly had no idea what to do with his hands, himself.  He did go, stay? Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket, hoping for a distraction, or maybe an answer, and noticed a text from Lestrade. 10 minutes old. He hadn’t even heard it buzz.

_Body on tracks. Hanger Lane station. Will have to move soon._

_On my way. Don’t touch anything. – SH_

John stopped his futzing as soon as he heard the door click behind Sherlock. He opened one more cabinet, this time with certainty, and pulled out a bottle of whisky, one-third full.

“Not hungry then? On second thought I’m not hungry either. Not hungry at all.”


	6. November 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a woman on the rails. Accident, murder, or suicide?

Sherlock ducked under the crime scene tape and crossed to Lestrade in a few long steps.

“What took you so long? They’ve been giving us a helluva time about not moving the body. It’s been mucking up Tube schedules left and right.”

“Has anything been moved?”

“Of course not.”

“Are the rails still live?”

“No.”

“Then this shouldn’t take long.”

“Where’s John?”

Sherlock jumped off the platform to the ground between the tracks below. A woman’s body lay face down, sprawled across the rails.

**Female. Approximately 32-33.**

Sherlock heard John’s voice in his head:

“ _Cause of death, electric shock, stopping the heart.”_

“Obvious.”

Lestrade called down. “What was that?”

“She died of electric shock, caused a heart attack. Obvious.”

“Well, of course, she’s lying on the bloody London Underground electric rail. But was it an accident, murder, or suicide?”

“Do you have the CCTV footage?”

“We’re getting it now.”

“Good. We’ll look at it later.”

Sherlock pulled out his magnifier and knelt down next to the body.

**Hair, straightened and pulled into low, tight bun. Overly conservative for her age and conventionally attractive face and figure. Intentionally conservative. Clothing similarly conservative. Workplace requirement?**

**Right hand, dominant, trace of red ink on the index finger and thumb. Nails recently painted, but with a shaky (non-dominant, non-professional) hand.**

**Left hand, no ring, no indication of one. Single. Smudges of blue and green along with tiny fibres and balls of dried ink of the same colour alongside the _digiti minimi._ Smells slightly sweet. _Benzene._ Dry-erase marker. Nails also painted shakily, even with dominate hand. Polish chipped, cuticles torn, traces of blood. Not lack of control then, nerves.**

“She’s a school teacher. Likely secondary or sixth form. Corrects papers in red ink, uses a white board. Could work in an office, but …” Sherlock glances at her rear and legs, “posterior firmness and veining in legs indicate long periods of standing, not sitting. So teacher.” Sherlock checks his phone. “Teacher, conservative dress, nearest Catholic institution is… St Augustine's Priory”

_ “Not Bad.” _

“Not now, John.”

Lestrade leaned out over the tracks. “What was that?”

“Not --- not an accident. Angle of the body, lack of scrapes on the shoes, indicate she didn’t trip, nor did she turn to try and stop her fall, so it was either too forceful, that is pushed, or deliberate, she jumped.”

“So we’re thinking suicide then?”

“No – murder.”

“Why murder?”

“She was nervous, very nervous. Look at her nails!”

“Maybe it was just a bad habit. Or maybe she was having second thoughts about offing herself.”

“She made them bleed. If it was a habit it was an awfully bad one. No basic probability. The male suicide rate is three times higher than the female. Women are much more likely to use passive methods that can be stopped, such as drugs or poisoning. She’s dressed very conservatively, meekly. Less likely to take the bold move of jumping in front of a train in a crowded station. She was nervous because she’s been followed, or threatened. Murder.”

“Who’d want to murder a school teacher?”

“Now you’re asking the right questions. Who indeed?” Sherlock checks the corpse’s pockets.  Nothing. Damn.

_ “Mary always carried her phone in her handbag.” _

“Did she have a handbag?”

“Yeah, over to your right.”

Sherlock grabbed at the handbag and quickly rifled through. “More proof she didn’t jump. Too far from the body. Hands were flung forward. Pushed, not jumped. You can move the body now.”

Lestrade nodded at the forensics officers standing nearby.

Sherlock pulled the phone out from the woman’s purse as Lestrade’s men began to move the body.

**Smart phone, relatively new. Four digit code. Look at the glass for fingerprint patterns –**

“No wait, give me her hand!”

“Which one?”

“Right.” Sherlock grabbed the dead woman’s right hand to the home button on the phone, which immediately unlocked and flashed to the home screen. Sherlock smiled at the wonders of modern technology.

**Email. Two addresses, one personal, one work - @saintaugustinespriory.org.**

_ “Spot on. Brilliant.” _

Sherlock smiled to himself at that.

**Announcements and adverts. Nothing. Text then. Ahh, here we go.**

Sherlock scrolled though the phone’s contents for a moment before he climbed back up to the platform and showed the phone to Lestrade.

“She was being doxxed.”

“What?”

“Blackmailed, in a way. Look at her texts. Who sends sexually explicit photos of themselves, to themselves? Three photos. Sent days apart. She writes back: _Who are you? What do you want?_ Gets no response, only another photo. Then, the address of St. Augustine’s. Then, _Bad Teacher. Bet your head teacher would like to know about this_.”

“Where’d he get the photos? An angry-ex?”

“Possible, but the number is unknown. An ex might still be in her contacts. Could be a hacker. As they say, it’s all up in the cloud these days.”

“So this hacker murdered her?”

“Unlikely. This is where the doxxing comes in. The sharing of information.  Look at her Twitter feed. The photos, her name, school address, home address. _Bad Teacher._ The whole internet knows where she works, where she lives.  Hundreds of accounts spewing vitriol at her. It could be any one of them.”

“But they never asked for money?”

“No, that why it’s not exactly blackmail. It’s not about money, it’s about dragging someone down to their lowest level, because you want to, because you can.”

_ “You know something about that, don’t you?” _

“Find the ex, start there.  See if you can find if any of these accounts belong to someone in London. Maybe someone connected to the school, a parent, father. Access and motive.”

Sherlock turned and started to head toward the stairs of the station, his hands instinctively moving to the collar of his coat, then stopping.

“That it’s then? You’re not going to help us find the bugger?”

“Your men are perfectly capable of reading a phone and conducting an internet search. I have other, more pressing matters to attend to.”

Sherlock’s hand returned to the collar of his coat, which he smoothed down as he made his way up the stairs. I’ll need to stop by the pharmacy on the way home, Sherlock thought, what I have is at least a three-patch problem. 


	7. November 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another morning after.

John woke up blinking into the late morning sunlight that slanted across his flat. He rolled over with a groan, only to realize that he had been sleeping on the sofa, and there really wasn’t much room to roll over, and furthermore that he had a massive hangover. It was only when he swung his feet to the floor and hit a banker’s box and empty bottle of whisky that he remembered why.

He’d been angry about something. Yes. Sherlock had packed his things to move him back into Baker Street. Leave it to Sherlock to go through all his things and think it a favour. But John supposed it was really just Sherlock’s way of saying that John could move back in, maybe even that Sherlock wanted him to move back in. It was somewhat sweet actually, or what passed for it in Sherlock’s world anyway - “I’ve decided what’s important to you and packed your bags, you’re moving tonight.” Arrogant, presumptuous, completely Sherlock, and yes, a little bit sweet.

Not that it seemed sweet at the time, and so John had to check what was in that damn banker’s box, to see what Sherlock had chosen, to see if he’d got it right, or, more truthfully, to prove him wrong. He’d packed it like Lestrade’s men packed up evidence. He’d seen it in the cold case files Greg had sent over in the past few weeks. But instead of a 5-year-old murder, or a missing persons case, it was the evidence of John Watson’s life.

He could hear Sherlock breaking down each selection in his head:

_Exhibit A: One woman’s three-stone diamond ring and plain gold band. Five years old. Barely long enough to thin the gold under the finger. Multiple scratches, but cleaned regularly, meaning it rarely gets removed for activities, but is cared for, indicating attachment._

_Exhibit B: One envelope marked “Dr. And Mrs. Watson” containing hand-written sheet music._

_Exhibit C: One crystal ashtray. Stolen._

_Exhibit D: One men’s long-sleeve button-up shirt, with sleeves rolled. Smells of perfume,_ Claire-de-la-lune _. It is wrinkled and softened with frequent wearing._

 _Exhibit E: Two snapshots, unframed, with bent corners from being tucked in the edge of a mirror or frame. One of a couple – the woman is laughing, beautiful. The second, more faded, of a group five people in front of a fireplace strung with Christmas lights. A sixth person took the photo, no tripod, as the angle is slightly off level. They are smiling, but none are standing particularly close. Back is dated December 25, 2012. There is a handwritten note in blue ink_ “Happy New Year Boys. XO- Molly.”

_Exhibit F: One baby blanket. Crocheted. Made by someone with no great skill, but obviously made with great affection. Expensive yarn. Wool. Not machine washable, indicating made with the expectation that it would be hand-washed, an extra level of effort for something that is likely to come into frequent contract with infant bodily fluids._

_Exhibit G: Plain mailing envelope containing three ultrasound pictures. Two photos faded slightly except for a small circle at the top, displayed on the refrigerator with a magnet. Third photo, showing fuzzy image of genitals and white text “GIRL,” equally cherished, (multiple fingerprints around the edges), but considered inappropriate for public display. Envelope also contains one printed photo, unframed, of a gloved adult hand holding a tiny hand._

Yes, John could think about these things if he thought of them in clinical terms, Sherlock terms. It was nothing beyond what it looked like, a box of evidence. Evidence of what? That he’d once been something more – a husband, a father? No, it’d do him no good to think on that. Least of all with his head already pounding and his stomach starting to churl -  

Oh, his stomach.

John ran to the en suite and promptly deposited a large portion of his stomach’s contents in the loo. After several miserable moments seated on the tiles, John dragged himself up to the sink and turned on the tap. He looked at this face in the mirror. It looked like a strangers face, bleary-eyed and red. His skin felt raw and there was a cut on his upper lip, slightly caked with blood.

John grabbed a flannel to wipe off the crusted blood and stopped short. He had had a moustache, yesterday. He must’ve shaved it off in the night. Why did he do that?  When did he do that? How could he not remember doing that? Lucky he didn’t cut his own throat.

John couldn’t remember the last time he had got so drunk. He’d certainly got drunk plenty of times, a night with Stamford practically included an engraved invitation for a hangover, but this drunk? Forgetting things? The last time he felt this terrible in the morning was his stag night--

Sherlock. Sherlock had been here last night. John’s mind raced, was he still in the flat somewhere, hungover too? John slogged back to the sitting room, reminding himself to never drink with Sherlock again.  Ah, wait, he hadn’t started drinking until after Sherlock had left. Why had he left?  

Oh, shit.

Sherlock.

He had kissed Sherlock Holmes.

John needed to sit down.

He had kissed Sherlock, and Sherlock had kissed him back, or he thought he had. But then Sherlock didn’t. Kiss him back. Oh god. Sherlock said something about a snog and a shag and how he wasn’t Mary.

The flush of embarrassment reddened John’s ears and neck as he remembered.

Why would Sherlock think he thought Sherlock was Mary? Was that just his way of letting him down easy? Leave it to Sherlock to bollocks that up.

He’d kissed Sherlock and Sherlock had turned him down, again. And he’d left and John had got drunk.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? John’s head was so fuzzy it was impossible to think. He needed to focus. What do you do after kiss your best friend?

Hide. That was the option that came most readily to mind. Crawl into his bed and sleep for a week and get up and never talk to anyone ever again. Everyone he knew, knew Sherlock. So he certainly couldn’t face any of them. Yes, he’d just become a hermit. Easy enough.

Except he’d still have to eat and pay his rent, which meant going to work. Hard to be a hermit when you have to interact with half a dozen colleagues and a cluster of patients every day. Not a hermit then.

Well, he’d just avoid Mrs. Hudson, and Molly Hooper, and Lestrade, and the entirety of New Scotland Yard. Easy enough if he’s not going on cases or living at Baker Street, which he certainly wouldn’t be doing anymore. Yes, he liked them, and liked working cases, but that’s too close. Of course a bunch of his things were still at Baker Street, and he couldn’t exactly just get another gun. So one more visit to Baker Street, when Sherlock’s out, say a few words to Mrs. Hudson and then it’s over.

He was too old to go back into Army, yes?

Maybe he should just go over to Baker Street right now. Pretend nothing had happened. Plausible deniability. He’s in mourning. Say nothing about the kiss, Sherlock probably already deleted it, and if Sherlock does mention it, he could say he was emotionally overwhelmed, that he did think it was Mary, that he didn’t know what he was doing. It’s close enough to the truth.

Except, as John admits, with a sinking feeling in his stomach that had only a little to do with alcohol, he knew exactly what he was doing.

He thought he had put those feelings for Sherlock to rest when he got married. He loved Mary and even through the hard bits, especially during the hard bits, it was a good marriage. Full stop.

But, he had loved Sherlock first.

If he could be attracted to both men and women, surely it made sense that he could love more than one person at once?

When it had shifted for him from best mate to more than that, he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as if these sorts of things happened all in one moment. It happened over a dozen, hundreds of moments, and then you look back one day and realize it.

There’s always been the attraction. From that first day, when Sherlock was clever and beautiful and remote. They’d had dinner that night, or John had dinner and Sherlock had had his mind on a case, and he’d given it the old Watson try. Girlfriend? _No._ Boyfriend? _No._ So, single like me.

Course, Sherlock had turned him down then too, and that was that. They became flatmates, and then friends, nothing more, and then Sherlock had died and it ripped the heart out of him. That was when John realized that he had loved his flatmate. That it’d been more than just mates, for him at least. But it was no matter then, Sherlock was dead.

Didn’t stop him from walking around in a fog for 18 months, but there it was. And then came Mary, and she made him right again. God, he owed her so much. She was brilliant. Sharp and clever, yes, but brilliant, like a light, a beacon, guiding him back to shore. It’d only been six months and he’d been ready to propose. When he looked at Mary it gave him hope, he could see a new and expanded future, instead of more of the same grey nothing.

John found himself smiling and teary, without realizing it. The shine in her eyes, and that laugh. She didn’t deserve any of this, no matter what she might have done before, to have her future snatched away so young. He’d had a conversation with a mate in uni once, about how old someone had to be for it to not be tragic when they died. 55? 60? 80? He knew the truth now, it was always tragic if it was someone you loved.

He had never expected to make it to 80 himself, especially not with Sherlock in his life. They’d just keep on having their ridiculous adventures until they got too old to chase criminals through the streets of London or one of them died - shot at, or stabbed. It’d just be more of the same, he figured, wouldn’t be any different if Sherlock loved him back or no.

John looked at the box on his floor that contained one set of plans for the future. It’d been a good plan, and he’d have been happy with it. Very happy, John thought. But that door was shut now and regardless of which path he chose, it couldn’t be the one in that box. 

So what did he want now?

To be with Sherlock. In whatever way Sherlock would let him. He would tramp down his feelings again and pretend if he needed to.

And he could only hope that he hadn’t buggered it all up.

Yes, he’d have to fix this, but first, John realized as his stomach lurched for another time, he would need some sleep.


	8. December 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is awake

Sherlock had been awake for 72 hours. In that time he had revisited his every interaction with John that he had stored up in his mind palace over the past nine years.

He had not anticipated John’s reaction. Any of them.

While John may not appreciate a new jumper, he had been certain that John would have appreciated that Sherlock went and got his old ones. That even though John had never actually asked, that he would be happy that Sherlock was moving him back into Baker Street where he belonged now.  He hadn’t anticipated the anger, but frankly, that was common enough. He seemed to have a knack for pissing people off.

No, the anger wasn’t what bothered him.

John had cried. He’d seen John cry only once before. From a distance, the day charity shop had come to collect Alice’s things. Too painful to look at anymore, still painful to give away. As the lorry pulled off, John’s soldier bearing, the stiffness he has been using to keep it contained, be the strong one, had dissolved. Mary had held him then, somehow the stronger one in that moment. Sherlock hadn’t known it would be that day, he had just come to tell John about a case. He’d stopped when he saw them load the crib unto the truck. It was a private moment he wasn’t supposed to see, he knew, and Sherlock could bear to look at it for no longer than a second.

It seemed right that John should cry for Mary. People usually do. John hadn’t when she died. In those last days it seemed like she'd made a choice: to keep on for another day, for John. She'd always been a strong woman. Hanging onto life through sheer willpower, until she couldn't anymore. Sherlock knew it was possible, he’d done it too, lived for John. And John hadn’t cried when they took her body away, or at the funeral. Sherlock had seen no evidence of tears in the three weeks he’d been at Baker Street. When he wasn’t distracted by cases, John had just become flat and grey, like a print of a photograph, the saturation turned down low, a poor copy of himself.

People cried in front of him all the time, clients, victims, a suspect every now or again. It flowed around him like a rock in the middle of stream. Gone and forgotten. Sometimes he’d pat a shoulder, give a _there, there_ if he thought it meant they would give him the information faster. But this had been different, this was John breaking up into little pieces before his eyes, and he felt that he needed to do something to keep them from floating away.

So he had held John, tight. It seemed to be the proper thing to do. And it felt right. And John had cried so much.

While he wasn’t one for personal boundaries, Sherlock couldn’t think of the last time he had been that close to another person’s body, or for so long. He had pulled John in tighter, breathing slowly, evenly, his lungs filling with the scent of John’s shampoo and willing John’s breath to slow down and match his own, even though he wasn’t sure that John even knew he was there anymore.

But then John looked at him. It was a look that Sherlock had never seen on another person’s face, at least not directed at him and he didn’t know what it was. The visual signs of a heart breaking? Sorrow? Need?

The thing that Sherlock had not expected, had never anticipated, was that John would kiss him. Sherlock had kissed people before, he had kissed Janine a lot when they had been “dating.” But John’s kiss was desperate and pushing and hungry and a bit bristly, and Sherlock wanted to give John what he needed then. And he opened his lips and felt his heart beat down low in his stomach, but then his mind asked why and remembered that this hadn’t been the first time John had kissed him – “off to work, dear” – and a peck on the head.

No, he hadn’t anticipated John’s reaction, but he was more surprised by his own disappointment that John hadn’t been kissing him after all.

He knew that he cared deeply for John, loved him even, but that they were, by John’s own declaration, best mates. He wanted John by his side always, constantly, heard John’s voice even when he wasn’t there, but Sherlock hadn’t thought of kissing John. He didn’t know that that was something he could have, thought that option had been off the table for some time, long before Mary. John said it to Irene, no hesitation in his voice, “We’re not a couple. I’m not gay.” 

But John had pressed his lips to Sherlock’s and Sherlock wished that it had been him that John was thinking about, that it was him that John was really kissing, and couldn’t bear to continue when he knew he wasn’t, to take advantage of John’s grief for his own desires.

But then he’d watched John’s eyes grow cold, the way he’d only seen once before, in Leinster Gardens with Mary.  He hadn’t known what to do in the face of it, so he ran, like a coward. He hadn’t heard from John in two days and Sherlock could think of no plan, no scheme that would make this right.

He composed a dozen texts and sent none of them. Unsure of the proper way to break the silence. Here he was faced with the mystery of human emotions, his and John’s, that he could not shove away or ignore.

His mobile buzzed. He grabbed it hurriedly.

Not John.

_Another dead teacher. Think it’s related to the first one. Croftdown and Highgate._

Sherlock put the phone down and pulled a nicotine patch off his forearm and replaced it with a fresh one and laid back on the sofa. Lestrade could wait, he had a more pressing mystery to solve.


	9. November 29- December 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why John Watson drinks.
> 
> [Trigger warning for alcohol abuse]

John thought he drank for recreation, because he liked it, because that was what adults do. But in truth he drank for three reasons: to steel his nerves, for plausible deniability, to forget.

He had woken up from his hangover nap late in the afternoon and nibbled on bread he found in the freezer and toasted. He’d milled about the flat a bit, refolding clothes, trying to read, hesitant to return to Baker Street too soon. As the light outside started to dim, John had poured himself a shot, just for a little courage before he went back and tried to pretend nothing had happened. But one shot turned into another, and it wasn’t long before drinking reason number one to turned into reason three and he found himself unable to get off the sofa, much less out of the flat.

He didn't make it back to Baker Street that night, and the longer he waited, John knew, the harder it would be to pretend that nothing had happened.

He didn’t have to be back at the surgery for three days and it only took that long for John to clean out most of the slim supply of liquor they kept in the flat. He polished off the dregs over the next few nights after work, thinking nothing about sobering himself up well enough in time for work the next day, knowing all the tricks from his dealings with Harry over the years. By Thursday night as he exited the surgery in the winter darkness, pulling his coat tighter around him, John knew his cabinets were dry and he’d run out of excuses. He had to make a choice – Baker Street or his flat.

John choose the pub instead.

The pub was mostly empty, with a few folks watching the final of the women’s squash championship on the telly. England was ahead of Malaysia by two games, but no one really seemed to care. It wasn’t much of a distraction, but several pints and a few shots in, John didn’t really care.

The third game went to Malaysia and a handful of patrons groaned.

“Hey!”

John looked for the source of the voice.

“Hey, I know you.” It belonged to a heavyset man, late 30s, sitting with a few other blokes, who was waving a hand at him from a few feet over. “Come ‘ere.”

John didn’t recognize him, but worked his way over, a little less sturdy on his feet than he’d like to admit.

“I know you. You’re the fellow that ran around with that hat detective, right?”

John answered hesitantly, “Yeah.”

“I remember your face from the papers.” He turned to his mate, “You guys remember the detective with the funny hat, right? Solved all those crimes, then offed himself and came back from the dead. This is bloke who ran around with him. Uh, James Watson, wasn’t it?”

“John.”

“Yeah John. My girlfriend read your blog. She’s loves all that crime stuff. Makes me watch every mystery show on the telly. Said the way you wrote about him, she was certain you two were shagging. So is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“You shagging, uh, what’s his name, the hat detective.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” His friend offered.

“Yeah, you shagging Sherlock Holmes?”

John did not recall pulling his arm back, but he could not forget the beautifully soft crunch of his fist against cartilage, and later, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. The rest, however, was a blur.

 

*****

 

John heard the voice first.

“You know that every time you two do this, it gets harder and harder for me to get you out.”

John opened his eyes to see Greg Lestrade standing in the doorway of this cell. Everything was pounding.

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“Not here.”

“I just assumed I’d find both of you here. He run off?”

“No. Just me.” John touched the edge of lip with his tongue – blood. His. He realized that in addition to the pounding in his head, he was incredibly sore.

“You look awful, by the way.”

“Yeah, well, you should see the other guy.”

“I did, and you’re lucky he’s not pressing charges. You broke his bloody nose.”

John had to chuckle a bit at that, or he would have if it didn’t pain his rib so much.

Greg’s voice, however, made it clear that he did not find the situation amusing. “What the hell possessed you to get into a row with a bunch of blokes at pub at 7 o’clock on a Thursday night?”

John squinted as he thought, but everything was too loud, and his head too fuzzy to remember anything properly.

“I dunno.”

Greg sighed.  “Come with me.”

 

*****

 

John blinked at the harsh fluorescent lighting and winced at flood of sounds that the harsh plastic booth he sat in did nothing to dim.

“Eat this. And drink this.”  Lestrade placed a paper bag and paper cup of coffee in front of John on the table.

“Why are we at a ruddy McDonald’s?”

“I’m not spending more than £3.39 getting you sober, mate. Drink up. “

Greg sat down and looked at John for moment, his eyes softening somewhat as he rubbed his hand awkwardly through his own hair and took a deep breath. “Look, John, I know this is a difficult time, with Mary’s passing and the holidays on their way and all, but this isn’t the way to go about it. If want to, you can talk to me, or we can find someone you can talk to, but you of all people should know this isn’t going to help, not really.”

John looked down at the table, unwrapping his egg sandwich for longer than was strictly necessary. He considered taking a bite then thought better of it. “I’m fine, Greg. Really.”

“You’ve got a black eye, a busted lip, and I just pulled you out of a jail cell for reasons that had nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes. You’re not all right.”

“Sherlock had a little something to do with it. “ John admitted, not looking up from his cup. “We had a row.” John took a long drink of his coffee. It was incredibly bitter and too hot.

Greg leaned back in his plastic chair, trying to place this bit of information into the rather different set of circumstances he’d had in mind. “Over what? When?”

“Friday.”

“And you’re punching people a week later? Must have been a helluva row.” Greg took a swig of his coffee and set it back down slowly, the pieces coming together, “Ah. That explains things.”

“Explains what?”

“Well, I’ve got a potential serial killer offing teachers across town and Sherlock isn’t answering my calls or texts.”

John let that sink in for a moment, his head still fuzzy. “How many?”

“Texts or teachers? “

“Teachers.”

“Two so far, but I’d hate for it to be more.”  Greg looked at John, seriously. “Whatever you two fought about is clearly doing a number on you both. I don’t want to get into the middle of anything, least not where Sherlock’s involved, but what I said before holds, if you need to talk –“ He stopped himself, rubbed his hand through his hair again and picked up his coffee. The both drank from their cups in silence, the bitter taste joining the unspoken words on their tongues. 

John sighed, in for a penny in for pound, right? “I kissed Sherlock.”

Greg almost choked. “Blimey. Well, we’d always wondered -- I mean, you hadn’t? You’re into blokes, then? It’s, well. A bit soon innit?”

John face was cold. “Not helping.”

“Sorry.” Sympathy replaced surprise on Greg’s face as he looked pass the bruise on John’s face into his eyes. “It didn’t go well, did it?”

“No.”

“Well with Sherlock –-“ John glared across the table and Greg swallowed, starting again, “Look, it’s just that, well it’s you and Sherlock, and lives may be on the line here. So maybe you could work it out. Just talk to him.” 

“I’ll think on it.” John took a last swig of his coffee and started to get up from the table.

“I _am_ sorry John, about… about everything.”

John gave Greg a little smile, he was trying to help, in his own way. “Thanks for the coffee, Greg.”

Greg watched as John pushed his way out of the restaurant and noticed he’d left his sandwich behind untouched. He grabbed it absent-mindedly and took a bite. He shook his head a bit as he tried to absorb what was a rather unusual morning, “Blokes.” He took another swig of his coffee and made a face, it really was terrible coffee.


	10. December 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock waits. John talks to someone.

Sherlock hadn’t left the flat in a little over a week and he was starting to get tetchy. His skull and Mrs. Hudson were equally unengaging conversationalists and there was only so much casework he could take on without leaving Baker Street. How Mycroft preferred his office and isolation was beyond him.

He still hadn’t heard a word from John. Sherlock had composed and sent John no less than 25 purposefully neutral texts – questions about potential cases, thoughts on takeaway selection, photos of decomposing livers, links to tips on cribbage game-play. No mention of anything relating to Mary, the flat, what had happened.

Best to just pretend nothing had happened. As if he’d deleted it and not that Sherlock was spending all his waking hours thinking about the gaping hole in Baker Street that John left behind in his absence.

Sherlock tried to fill that hole as fervently as he had following John’s marriage. He set up countless experiments in the kitchen and found them all dull. He tried composing, but everything came out discordant and in minor keys, such that Mrs. Hudson felt the need to complain on behalf of the neighbours.

Why did John have to kiss him? He had worked all this out years ago. Sherlock had long ago taught himself how to take his emotions and crate them like a dog, confined and asleep until needed (and they were never needed).

John had always made him feel things more strongly than most. It was something he couldn’t delete, but he had managed to control that too, he had to. He contented himself with being John’s best mate, which is more than he had ever expected or hoped for and found his satisfaction in protecting John’s happiness with the same vigilance that John protected his life.

Sherlock knew he loved John more than he had ever loved anyone or anything, including his work. But to acknowledge it was ancillary to his need to be around John, even if to do so meant denying that his care went anything beyond the simple bonds of friendship.

But John had kissed him. And while Sherlock was certain that it was just part of the recent trend of using him as a fill-in for Mary in John’s grief-distracted mind, it had kindled a small flame of hope, of potential reciprocity that Sherlock had long ago concluded either didn’t exist or was highly undesirable for John.

But as each day passed with no reply, no appearance, no word, that slight flame flickered less and less.

Sherlock held on to one simple fact: John’s laptop and gun were still in the flat. John was too cheap to buy a new laptop and it would be rather difficult to secure a second handgun. At some point John would have to come back to get his things and Sherlock was going to be here when he did – either to love him openly as he longed to, or to conceal it behind a veil of friendship and forgetting and go on as before.

In the meantime, all he had to do was wait. Unfortunately, he was terrible at waiting.

*****

John had found new motivation following his breakfast with Lestrade. He had called the British Heart Foundation that afternoon, and the charity shop would be coming to do a house collection in two days.

He had two days to say goodbye to the home, the life he had shared with Mary.

He filled the bins with things that couldn’t be donated or left at the flat. He apologized to Mary’s favourite knick-knacks as he put them into boxes. He went through cabinets and drawers to see if there was anything else he wanted to take, if Sherlock had missed something after all, but there was nothing more.

He went and looked at three flats, all dull, but passable. He put a deposit down on the least depressing one.

He had one day to say goodbye.

He looked around the flat, less homey now, more reflective of the emptiness he felt there. He grabbed the shirt from the banker’s box and lay down on his marriage bed for the final time, not bothering to turn on the lamp, pulling the shirt close to his face and breathing in Mary’s scent, already fading. The shirt was flimsy and empty in his arms.

He felt silly doing it, buttoning the shirt around Mary’s pillow, but who was to know after all. He rested his cheek against the worn fabric and wrapped his arm around its soft warmth.

“I’m sorry, Mary.” 

_Sorry about what?_

“That I’m abandoning here. That I’m not strong enough to stay.”

_We both knew I was strong one. You never learned how to hold in your emotions the way I had to. You feel everything so much. It must be exhausting, but it’s one of the things I loved most about you._

“Loved?”

_I’m dead dear. I’m past tense now._

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

_You’ve never really done what you were supposed to do, John, why start now?_

John smiled a bit. “Getting a dig in even from the Grave, eh?”

_It was another one of the things I loved about you._

“You don’t mind that I’m leaving?”

_It’s not as if you’re leaving me._

“But I think I might be.”

_Sherlock?_

“I’ve done a half a dozen stupid things since you’ve gone, Mary.”

 _I know, I saw the moustache_.

John did smile at that.

_Good you shaved it off though._

“But really, Mary. I’ve lost you and now I’ve alienated my best mate.”

_How does one alienate the most alienating man in London?_

“By loving him.”

_So you admit it then?_

“You knew?”

 _It was impossible not to John_.

“You knew and you still married me?”

_I think you know something about compromising for the ones we love. I loved you fiercely and you loved me too and that’s all that mattered to me._

John said nothing.

 _You're not going to live in that dingy flat_.

“I put the deposit down this morning.”

_You already have a home, John._

“I told you, Mary, the charity shop is coming tomorrow, I'm leaving here.”

 _I wasn't talking about here. This had always been a joint custody situation_.

“I’ll go back tomorrow, but only to get my things. I just can’t anymore, Mary. You showed me what it felt like to love and be loved in return, and to go back and live with Sherlock and pretend I don’t love him? A clean break would be easier.”

_When is easier ever better? I saw you without Sherlock and saw you with him. And him with you. Maybe this time you won’t have to pretend._

“He has made it abundantly clear he wasn’t interested.”

_Has he?_

“He tells everyone he’s a high-functioning sociopath. If he has feelings, he certainly doesn’t want anyone to know about them.”

_Maybe he’s afraid to take the risk._

“When has Sherlock Holmes backed down from a risk?”

_When has John Watson?_

John lay in silence, clutching the pillow closer.

“I’m tired, Mary.”

 _Then rest, John_.

"Say hullo to Alice for me."

 _Of course. Good night, John_.

"Good night, Mary."


	11. December 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock talk.

Sherlock had been stewing in nervous anticipation ever since he heard the familiar click of keys in the doorway, the familiar tenor talking to Mrs. Hudson in the hallway. He had been waiting for this for days. He hadn’t taken a case, refused to go out, didn’t want to risk missing this chance. Now as those footsteps made their way up the stairs, a cadence he would recognize anytime, anywhere, half-asleep or high, he tried to calm himself and look busy, look casual.

The door swung opened and John immediately stiffened upon seeing Sherlock reading in his chair.

“You’re here.”

“You shaved your moustache.”

“Mrs. Hudson said you were out.”

“She lied. I asked her to. You wouldn’t have come up if you knew I was here. I sent 25 texts. You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Yes, the black eye would attest to that.”

John had nearly forgotten about that. Clearly it hadn’t faded as much as he’d like to think.

“I’ve been packing.”

“You have?” Sherlock tried hard to hide the hint of hope in his voice.

“I’ve found a new flat. Small place, furnished. Look, I appreciate that you let me stay here a while, I needed that. After Mary. But, um, I left a few things.”

“Your gun and jumpers are up in your room. I haven’t touched anything. Not even the laptop.” John looked at the table, his laptop was exactly where he had left it. He grabbed it and headed for the stairs. Sherlock spoke, his voice unaffected and even. “You don’t have to, you know, you could stay here.”

John turned a bit red. God, he wanted to, but to be in those close quarters again, knowing that Sherlock knew he had feelings for him, and that Sherlock didn’t? John wished he could turn his emotions off, the way Sherlock seemed to do, just go back to how it was before.  “The new place is near the surgery. I’ll be able to walk to work.”

“Sounds terribly convinent.”

Sherlock watched as John headed upstairs. Knowing he should say something more. But he didn’t.

 

*****

 

It took John less than five minutes for gather his things from upstairs, he really hadn’t brought all that much over in the first place, but he took a moment to lay on the bed, look at the ceiling he’d fallen asleep looking at so many nights, taking in Baker Street and hoping that Sherlock might leave before he went back downstairs.

He hadn’t.

 “Still here.”

“Yep.”

“Well, I’ve got to run, I’m signing for the new flat in an hour.” John headed for the door and stopped himself. “Um look, I ran into Lestrade last week. He said you’re not taking cases, not answering his calls.”

“I’m not.”

“I don’t know why – “

“You do.”

“I don’t know why, but answer him. I know you don’t care about the victims, but someone’s killing teachers. They just found a third one earlier today.”

“Will you come with me?”

“Can’t, signing for the flat.”

“Of course.” Sherlock had an idea.  “I’ll help Lestrade if you do me one favour.”

“Sherlock, people are getting murdered, just do it.”

“Then do me this one thing.”

John shifted his weight momentarily. “Fine. What is it?”

“Ask me one question. And I will answer it completely honestly.” There. Now it was John’s choice whether he wanted to know or not.

John pursed his lips for a moment, not sure he wanted to take advantage of this opportunity. “One question, then. Being honest. Are you a sociopath, high-functioning or otherwise?”

Sherlock didn’t respond immediately, this wasn’t the question he’d been expecting, the question he wanted. “No.”

“But you tell people you are.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Before Mary, sometimes afterward, people would assume things about us, and you would always correct them, tell them you weren't my date, we weren't a couple, that you're not _actually_ gay. And you're not gay, are you, John?”

“No.”

“But you never said that you were straight. Are you heterosexual? We're being honest, John.”

“Not entirely, no.”

“You are not gay, but you are not entirely straight. Something else then.  Not a lie, but not the full truth. Clever. But in all the years I've known you, you've only been with women. Why?”

“I was supposed to be the one asking the question.” John felt his hand twitch.

“I am answering your question. Why, John? Why, if you are attracted to men, why in all of your dating - Captain ‘Three Continents’ Watson - why have you never been with a man?”

John stops for a moment, this is an answer he knows all too well. “Because it's easier.”

“Because it’s easier _.”_

John exhaled a low sigh. “When was easier ever better? You’ve been lying to me for years. Letting me believe that you had no feelings, were incapable of feeling. Everyone else, I understand. Make it easy for them, sure. But me? After all this time? After all this time, Sherlock, you still don't trust me?”

“I never said -- not to you—“

“Just to everyone around us, and you seemed to go out of your way to prove it true to me. I would think at times it wasn't possible. That you were the most feeling man I'd ever met, but then you’d do something - be cavalier about a victim, or shoot an unarmed man in the head, the whole relationship farce with Janine.”

Sherlock looked sheepish and a bit hurt, uncommon expressions for his face and they fit uncomfortably. “Did you believe it then? That I was a sociopath, an unfeeling machine?”

“Yes. No. Sometimes. You’d use people and it seemed like emotions were a switch you could turn on and off and you preferred off.”

“It was better that way.”

“For who, Sherlock? You? Me?  I’m your best mate, or at least you're mine, I can't vouch for your feelings obviously. But you don’t trust me with anything and it seems that everyone I've ever loved has lied to me over and over again. I'm done with it, Sherlock.” John sighed again, and picked up his bag.

John turned his back and started down the stairs of 221B Baker Street for the last time.

Sherlock listened as John made his way down from the landing, the creak of each stair diminishing his hope and shattering his heart a little more. His ears strained, listening for the door. No sound of hinges came.

He pulled out his phone and typed quickly, hit send. It was the coward’s way, he knew, but it was the only thing he could think of to do.

_Come back. – SH_

He heard a dim buzz down below, then the door gently open and shut.

He fingers flew desperately over the keys. Send. Send. Send. Send.

_Please. – SH_

_I’m sorry. – SH_

_Please. – SH_

_I love you. - SH_

Sherlock looked out the window down to the street below, just in time to see John put his phone back in pocket and look down the street for a cab.

_I trust you with my heart. – SH_

Send.

Sherlock sank back against the window and closed his eyes. The sounds of London poured over him and dimmed into an indistinguishable fog, keeping him from hearing the front door slam or the rush of feet up the stairs.

“What the bloody hell is this, Sherlock?” John stood before him, brandishing his mobile, eyes blazing. “Is this true?”

“I –“

“Is this true? Because so help me god, if you are taking the piss with me or making some kind of play to get me to do your shopping and cleaning, you can bugger off right now, forever.”

“I wouldn’t – “

“I have seen you get engaged to get up a lift, you would and you have. Is. This. True?”

Sherlock eyes darted nervously, his lips moved but no sound came out.

“Sherlock.” There was less anger in John’s voice this time, but still firm, “I need you to tell me if what you wrote here is true.”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“Sit.” John’s voice grew steely again.

Sherlock moved toward his armchair, but John’s voice stopped him. “Not that one.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment before turning to the table and pulling out one of the low-backed wooden chairs, rotating it to face the faded plaid chair John now placed himself in. Sherlock sat stiff-back and tall, feet flat on the floor and hands folded in his lap and saying nothing.

John watched him intensely – waiting for Sherlock to speak. “Well?”

Sherlock spoke evenly, not making eye contact. “What would you like to know?”

“How long?”

“Have I loved you? I’m not certain, quite some time longer than I recognized it, I believe.”

“How long have you known it then?”

“About five, five and half years.”

“Years?” John huffed, and then caught himself as he did the math. His next question was deadly serious. “Before or after my wedding, Sherlock?”

“A little bit before, but mostly during.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. What am I supposed to do with this? You realized you were in love with me in the middle of my wedding?”

“The reception, really.”

“Sherlock!’

“You don’t have to do anything about it. I’ve lived with it for five years. It doesn’t has to change anything. All I want is for things to go back to the way they were. Today can be no different than yesterday.”

“Well I _know_ now.” John took a breath. “You knew you were in love with me, but you encouraged me to stay with Mary after she shot you. You killed Magnussen for her.”

“For you. For your happiness.”

“Why?”

“She was perfect for you. The perfect blend of domestic and danger. A woman, which, despite your attractions otherwise, you are far more comfortable being in a visible relationship with. She was carrying your child. She loved you.”

“But so did you.”

“Yes.”

“If I had known --”

“I didn’t want that to influence your decision.”

John stood as his anger boiled up again. “Why does no one think I am capable of making my own decisions?!” Like a magician’s flash paper, John’s anger was exhausted as soon as it had lighted. “I would have left her, you know.”

“I thought it was the most likely possibility, yes.”

“I would have left her. Moved back into Baker Street with you, gone on as before.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t want that?”

“I very much did. I still do, but it wouldn’t have been what you really wanted. I said I couldn’t give you what Mary did. I couldn’t then, I still can’t.“

“What is it you think I wanted? What I want?”

“You wanted your danger, you always do, but you also wanted the relationship, the trappings, the home, the wife, the child.” Sherlock looked a bit ashamed as he finished, “To matter to someone at all times, not just when it was convenient for them. To depend. To be depended on. Mary provided that and still let me be in your life. It was the best possible outcome. It made you happy.”  

“There is more than one road to happiness, Sherlock.” John sat back down, all of his anger gone, replaced with weariness.  “Did it hurt you to do that, to give me up to her?”

“Terribly.”

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Is that why you did the drugs?”

“That was for a case.” John eyes met Sherlock’s, a gaze he could not hold. “Mostly.”

They sat in silence for a long moment.

“John, will you stay?”

“No.”

“Oh.” It was more a breath than words.

“Not tonight. This, this is a lot, Sherlock. I need to think.”

“All right.”

“I’m not happy about a lot of what you’ve told me. I can stay angry for a very long time.”

“I know.” Sherlock pulled himself up to his full sitting height in the chair. “I’ve waited for five years. Another few days won’t hurt.” He lied.

“I appreciate it.” John got up and grabbed his bag where he’d left it by the door. “I deduced you weren’t a sociopath a long time ago, you know. I just figured that you rather wished you were, which in some ways was worse.”

“How so?”

“Everyone, not including Mary of course, but everyone always referred to her as “the baby.” Not giving her her name, keeping their distance somehow, not accepting her as something that was real, a human being. When I first met you, with the woman in pink, you didn’t understand why she’d think of Rachel, her stillborn daughter, in her last moments. But from the very first day, even now, you always called her Alice.”

“It’s her name. She was part of my family, because you are my family. Surely you know that by now?”

“Go help Lestrade with his case.”

“I will.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Not goodbye?”

“Good night, Sherlock.” John closed the door behind himself and Sherlock listened as John's steps faded down the stairs.

“Good night, John.”


	12. December 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another problem to solve, and a solution.

Sherlock was at the crime scene 15 minutes after John left. He had a promise to keep.

He had to admit the case was intriguing. Three teachers dead, all after receiving threats via social media. But for a string of connected murders, the linkages were sloppy. The murders were done via disparate methods: the first one pushed onto the Tube tracks; the second by a blow to head from behind on the street with a blunt object; the third, strangulation at the school. The first two victims were young women, the third a middle-aged man.

The methodology of the first two indicated crimes of opportunity and a lack of planning, but strangulation - that was personal, and took some doing. The bruising on the throat indicated a man, the height and angle of the word “shirt-lifter” on the whiteboard specified someone 1.8 meters tall and left-handed.

Sherlock had gathered some dirt and grass samples from the tile floor, presumably from the perpetrator’s shoes to take back to St. Bart’s for analysis.

Lestrade had watched Sherlock much more closely than usual that evening.

“Thanks for coming out, Sherlock.”

“Yes, of course. Either our killer is getting bolder, or we’re looking for more than one individual. Hundreds of people knew where to find each of the victims and a reason to hate them.”

“Yeah, that’s what’s making this one so bloody hard. The NCUU found a local message board with a bunch of gits mouthing off about killing teachers they think shouldn’t be around kids.  We’re getting usernames, but anything you can do to narrow it down.”

“I’ve given you height, hand-dominance and should have regional location and possibly occupation by sun-up.” Sherlock said, raising his evidence bag of dirt. “Surely you can do something with that.”

“Yeah, no. Definitely a big help.”  Lestrade hesitated for a moment.

Sherlock eyed him. “You want to ask me about John.”

“Well, when you texted me you were coming, I thought it’d be both you. But you came here, right? So he talked to you?”

“Yes.”

“And you patched things up?”

“I don’t know. And I detest not knowing things. How do you people stand not-knowing so much of time?”

Lestrade wasn’t sure whether to smile, or roll his eyes. “You learn to cope.”

“Coping is not a skill I excel at.”

“I’d noticed.”

“Look, he came round and talked to you. You’re Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. He’s as miserable as you are right now. I’ve never seen two blokes need each other like you two do. It’ll work itself out.”

Sherlock's face softened, grateful, in a way Greg Lestrade rarely saw. “I hope you’re right Greg. I’ll get you my analysis by morning.”

*****

Sherlock had spent all night awake at the lab, but his soil analysis had lead them to QE Olympic Park and a left-handed software developer in Shoreditch. Lestrade made the arrest by 2 PM and Sherlock had spent the afternoon at the station providing details for files.  Sherlock’s usual post-case high was missing, replaced by an extreme weariness. All he wanted to do was go back to flat, fall asleep and try not to think on anything.

It took him a moment then, to see the duffle, suitcase, and small bankers box in the middle of sitting room floor, and another moment to see a man sitting with his back towards him in a wooden chair.

Sherlock took in a breath. “You’re here.”

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“For how long?”

“Seven to nine.”

“Hours?”

“Years.”

Sherlock crossed slowly and sat in his armchair, meeting John’s eyes. “What accounts for the differential?”

“I was attracted to you the moment we met. I knew I loved you when you died.”

“And since then?”

“I’ve loved you still.”

The statement drifted its way across the room like a whisper.

“What do we do now?”

“I’m too old to start over for a third time, so I thought maybe I’d ask if I could move back here and we could be Sherlock and John again.”

“As flatmates?”

“Mates, partners, lovers, whatever you let me have, I’ll take, but my preference would more than mates.”

“I’m no good at relationships. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“You think I don’t know that more than anyone? I have loved you exactly the way you are for nine years, inconsiderate and rude and brilliant and wonderful. I already know what it’s like to live with you. We've been in a relationship for nearly a decade, we were just the last ones to admit it. Yesterday, you said you love me.  I love you. We spent nine years being right royal gits and giving each other every excuse we could, so maybe we try something different.”

Sherlock swallowed, a bit stunned “All right.”

_“_ Good.” John stood up. “I’m going to go unpack my things. I hope you didn’t throw my shampoo away, because I didn’t bring any.”

Sherlock shook his head, still dazed, "I didn’t touch anything.”

“Good.”

John grabbed the duffle and box and walked upstairs. Sherlock shut his eyesand allowed himself to melt into his chair, revelling in the sound of that familiar gait and feeling the room fill up even as John walked out of it.

 

*****

That evening, Sherlock was sitting in bed reading the latest issue of _Guns & Ammo_ when he saw a shadow in the door.

John stood in the doorway in an old tee and striped pyjama bottoms, his hair slightly damp on the edges from washing his face. “Rare that you’re in bed before me.”

“I haven’t sleep much of late.”

“You never sleep much.”

“This was worse.”

Sherlock and John's eyes met, seeing and truly understanding something in each other's eyes for the first time. A thought flashed in Sherlock's mind, a hope he'd never though to fulfill and held it in his mind, nervously at first, then with more resolve as John continued to stand in the doorway, liminal, and not yet moving. Sherlock slid over in the bed, pulling back the side of the duvet closest to the door.

John crossed the threshold, a small step forward. “You sure?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Then move over. I get the left side.”

For once, Sherlock did as he was told.

John crawled into bed, pulling up the covers, but still keeping to his side. Sherlock’s bed was deep and soft, and slightly warm near the center where he’d been sitting. The sudden support of its springs and comfort of its layers made John realize how much weight he'd been carrying around on his shoulders. “I’m knackered.”

“Then you should sleep.”

John rolled over on this side, toward the edge of the bed, and took a deep breath. He’d be asleep in minutes, he knew it.

Sherlock watched as John cocooned himself into the bed and closed his eyes. He lifted his hand, holding it in the air, hesitating for a moment before placing it gently on John’s shoulder. John let out a contented hum and Sherlock let his fingers drift to John’s neck, his thumb running back and forth lightly along the line of muscle there, feeling it relax under his touch, only removing his hand, reluctantly, when he needed to turn the page.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of an epilogue for the next and final chapter- thank you for reading thus far!


	13. December 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two and half weeks later

John looked down at the pair of gravestones in front of him. One large and new, the other small and slightly worn.

“Hullo, Mary. I can’t stay long, everyone’s supposed to come over at six and I’m bringing the wreath.”

He took a breath.

“I miss you like crazy, you know. I keep turning around, especially at work, and thinking you’ll be there, but I know you won’t. That you’re truly gone.”

John pulled one of the wreaths off of his arm.

“I brought you something. Just a bit of cheer. Thought you’d like it.”

He turned to the smaller stone.

“I didn’t forget you either,” he said, placing a small potted evergreen shaped like a tree on the ground.

John ran his fingers through his hair. “Really what I came to say is, what I wanted you to know is that I’m going to be all right. I think you knew I would be, but I was never as clever as you, so it took me a while to figure it out. But I’ll be all right. Good, actually. So you needn’t worry.”

He bent to kiss the top of the small stone, “Happy Christmas, Alice,” and the larger one, “Happy Christmas, Mary.”

*****

John was later than he planned and could already hear voices upstairs when he got in the door at 221B Baker Street.

There was Mrs. Hudson. “I’m so glad that you three could make it.”

And Molly. “We wouldn’t miss it. We don’t have to be at Greg’s mother’s until tomorrow and then we’ll spend Boxing Day at my parents. Christmas Day is just for us and Lu.”

He walked into the flat, and smiled, it was so full of noise and warmth, with Sherlock right there in the middle of it, describing tyre rubber degradation rates to Greg.

_Home._

“Oh good, you’ve brought the wreath. I’ll go put it up downstairs.” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as she grabbed it from John’s hand and trotted down the stairs.

Bill Wiggins walked up punch glass in hand. “Care for a glass? Mrs. Hudson’s made some marvellous punch.”

“No thanks, Bill,” John said, giving a nod of greeting to Greg as he pulled off his coat and scarf. “I think I’ll stick with the egg nog tonight.”

He crossed over to Molly, and placed a kiss on the head of the toddler happily drumming on Sherlock’s skull in her lap. “Hullo, Lucy. You’ve gotten so big. Examining corpses already?”

Molly smiled, “We’ll make a scientist of her yet. It’s good to see you, John.”

“Good to see you too.”

Mrs. Hudson came back up the stairs. “The wreath is on the door and I think it may just snow.”

“I won’t stick though. This is an urban heat island. The waste heat from cars alone is enough to melt –“

“Oh, Sherlock, it’s Christmas. Don’t spoil an old lady’s fun.”

Sherlock looked as if he might object, but Molly took a quick look around the room and smiled, “We should take a picture.”

“Yes! A great idea,” John said, grabbing Molly’s proffered mobile. “Bill, you take it.”

“Why can’t I be the in picture?”

“Well someone has to take it and you’re the newest.”

“I’ve known you for five years! That’s longer than the baby!”

“Well, the baby can’t take pictures.”

“Fine.”

Bill moped a bit as Mrs. Hudson herded everyone toward the mantel, pointing a finger at Sherlock, “Now look cheery. None of your sulking.” Sherlock obliged her with a grin, “That’s better,” a grin that disappeared as soon as she turned her back.

John watched Greg wrap his arm around Molly’s shoulders as she lifted Lucy up on her hip. He glanced down at Sherlock’s hand and laced his right fingers between Sherlock’s long left ones. Sherlock looked over at John with a bit of surprise, and pulled his arm over, drawing John in closer.

“Say cheese!” said Bill, as he snapped a few photos with the phone.

"I'll want a copy of that," John said.

“One more for good luck,” called Molly.

*****

Sherlock felt the warmth of John’s hand in his own and looked over to find a similar warmth in John’s eyes. He wasn’t a man to put much stock in religion or holidays, but for all of his (healthy, he thought) scepticism, here he was, with his very own Christmas miracle. His third miracle, actually - to be accepted, to be forgiven, and now to be loved. Three miracles, all emanating from one man - John, his John. He smiled.

“Perfect!” said Molly, grabbing her mobile back from Bill.

Yes, thought Sherlock, bringing John’s intertwined hand to his lips for a light kiss, it was.

 

 

 

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The patience of a saint - the ability to wait for a long time under difficult circumstances without becoming angry or upset, to have patience in abundance
> 
> To become canonized as a saint within the modern Catholic Church, a candidate must be accredited with performing three miracles. As far as I know, there is no term or title for someone who has been the recipient of three miracles. 
> 
> *****
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who read, gave kudos, and especially to those who commented. Your encouragement was a wonderful welcome into this community for a first-time fan-fic writer. It's really been a great experience for me and was a reminder of how much I enjoy writing fiction. Really, thank you.


End file.
